


Sunday Morning

by pirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-01
Updated: 2006-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirl/pseuds/pirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This doesn't take place during any ep but is set sometime in the 1st season, so it's free of spoilers. Enjoy, or send raspberries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Oodles of thanks to cheights for keeping in check my gross misuse of grammar! This written before we knew about John's family, obviously.

The windows are open, letting a chilled, salty breeze sweep across the room. It's raining this morning which, strangely, is a rare thing in Atlantis. Thick, heavy drops collide onto the glass like fat little fingers tapping a nervous staccato beat.

The sheets are early-morning cool and feel refreshing on my skin, warmed with sleep. They're not chilled enough for goose bumps but just enough to slowly tug me from my lethargy and start the day. I knew he wouldn't be there, warming the bed bedside me. No. Though I'm certain he's still in my quarters, and a quiet grumble confirms my thought only moments later.

I shift on the thin mattress, not yet aware of the stiffness that will pain my back for the remainder of the day. For now, all I can feel is the ocean-born moisture hanging in the air and the cool sheets against my cheek as I slide across the pillow.

I'm reminded of Sunday mornings back when I was a kid. When the rest of the base would be going to church or eating brunch, I would be sitting on the couch with my father watching "Meet the Press" while mom would be in the kitchen making loaves of bread that would last the week. It made every house we lived in, until she died, smell like home. Atlantis doesn't smell like fresh baked bread, but it does have its own scents that can calm me at certain moments. The saline from the sea and the strangely sweet odor that Atlantis' walls keep feels so aged, so ancient. It gets creepy once in a while, when the musty, mildewed smell of a once flooded corridor reminds me that this whole city was underwater for ten thousand years.

Jesus. Ten thousand years. Us being here is just a blink in its history, yet look at the shit-storm we've already brought on. But I don't want to think about that yet. Sunday mornings aren't for stress, they're for resetting the week. It's the one time I'm allowed to stop the clock and just be John Sheppard. Not Lieutenant Colonel anything. That's what those Sundays back home were like too. I wasn't Colonel Bill Sheppard's son, or grandson to Brigadier General Arthur Sheppard. I was just John. Johnny even, until I started high school.

Those mornings time stood still, like this morning. Everything is lazy and slow. It's as if Sunday has its own time-dilation field. Heh, Rodney would laugh if I told him I was thinking of time-dilation fields.

Rodney.

I've caught myself at inopportune times thinking about his thighs, about how they feel flexing under my hands, squeezing around my hips, those long muscles straining and shuttering. He's everything in bed that he is in Atlantis-- cocky, demanding, anxious. He's constantly worried about how I am, about how we are, apparently. It's not always front and center, but it's there. How many months and Rodney still finds this, us, all too crazy to believe? I don't tell him, but I wonder the same thing sometimes.

I look over to my desk where he's sitting. He has one pant leg on up to his knee, his one hand frozen and forgotten while his fingers are holding fast to the garment. His other hand is otherwise occupied and is tapping ferociously across a computer pad. He should've left hours ago, but I made him stay. He presented his half-hearted complaint that he'd sleep better in his own bed, but we both knew better. McKay could sleep like the dead on a bed of nails with Wraith darts zipping over him. Plus, I wanted him to stay. I'm tired of sneaking around. Not only does it upset our lives having to tiptoe out of each others' quarters with a "borrowed" Life Signs Detector, but just the principal of us not being able to have this... thing... public has been eating at me. Not that we're really there yet, but what if?

His temple still bears a sickly yellow bruise around a brand new scar that arches down to his cheekbone. It was compliments from the raid party we ran into on M3X-771. Apparently they didn't take kindly to strangers and favored to ambush them instead. Can't say I blame their xenophobia with the Wraith lurking around the galaxy, but I thought it was pretty obvious we weren't into leather and life-sucking, which is too bad, since they looked well fed. Elizabeth is still mulling over the idea of taking a cloaked jumper back to check out what crops they grew and how they were cultivated. Rodney is adamant about never stepping another foot on that moon because, how did he put it, "this is one piñata they don't get to crack open."

Then again, they did almost kill him. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but it sure wasn't just another bump on the head. It's never a good thing when someone is intentionally put into a coma. Rodney may bemoan the science, but Beckett has saved his life enough times that he should really ease up on teasing the Doc. 'Cuz while Rodney's busy keeping the city afloat, the Doc's just making sure we stay on the boat.

Sometimes I think I can feel Atlantis move, drifting over waves in this alien ocean. I know it's impossible, hell even during the big storm there wasn't a bit of movement. But I still like to think that I can. I pretend that it's lulling me to sleep, calming me from all the shit we've had to deal with so far. The city, it speaks to me. Whenever I step through that gate after a mission I can feel her, like a low, warm hum in my body, welcoming me back. I wonder, since I'm the only one here with the big whammy gene, if the city singles me out. If there were more of us with the natural gene, would she be such a presence in me?

I still get a bit freaked out when I think about it. When I really take a moment and think to myself, "Hey, I'm living in another frickin' galaxy." It's all really hard to believe sometimes. I mean, in one minute I'm taxi-boy for the South Pole brain trust, the next I'm the ranking military officer from the Milky Way.

Then there's Rodney. I'm not freaked out over that one at all. He was, though. He actually thought I must've suffered a head trauma when I first told him how I felt.

"'Morning."

Rodney looks up from his data pad, his face is taut with concentration but it quickly softens and he gives me one of those subtle, tender smiles.

"You're up early." I roll over onto my stomach and prop my chin up on his pillow.

"The simulation we set up last night finished about an hour ago. I need to go through the results before talking with Elizabeth."

"What time's your meeting?"

He checks his wrist for his watch and when he finds out it isn't there he finally takes notice that he still hasn't finished putting on his pants. I have to chuckle when he hops up to finish the job. When he eventually locates his watch, he informs me that it's oh five twenty. Which means I need to get up in forty minutes. Which means he'll be gone in ten.

Such as it is with all good things, the heavy, warm tapestry of a Sunday morning starts to unravel and the everyday barges its way in. The cocoon that exists for moments, or if you're lucky, hours, has to be broken open to the real world sooner or later. I honestly don't know what day it is. It could be Sunday, but it might just as easily be Thursday for all I know. Atlantis Standard Time doesn't translate well to Earth Standard, what with the shorter days and longer weeks. And months aren't useful unless you count the phases of the moons, which I leave up to the astronomers. For me, if it feels like a Sunday morning then it is a Sunday morning. And if Rodney's here with me, it's the best kind of Sunday morning.

Something in my face must've gotten to Rodney because he's kneeling on the bed now, urging me onto my back and kissing me with his morning breath and soft lips. I'm not a fool, so I wrap my heavy arms around him and pull him down. His skin is cool from the ocean breeze and it wakes my body up as his chest presses down against mine. My breathing quickly catches up to match his, as he lets me take off those same pants he just pulled on while he moves the sheet that is still draped over me out of his way.

And right there is the final thing I love about Sunday mornings. Sometimes you can ignore the real world that's been knocking on your bedroom door for a little while longer and just go with it.


End file.
